


Practice Sword

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Half-Sibling Incest, Kink Discovery, M/M, Masochism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 02:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14886017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Jon beats Robb at sparring one day, and thinks it's not like Robb to sulk about it. However, that's not the problem.





	Practice Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Kink generator gave: pain + accidental stimulation

Robb hasn't said anything since the end of their sparring session. Jon presumes he's just sulking since Jon won their last bout, and won it pretty decisively too, leaving Robb sprawled across the ground flat on his back with Jon's practice sword at his throat, his arms littered with bruises. “You're not mad at me, are you?” he asks as they slink into the armoury, Robb hurriedly wrapping his cloak around his body.

He takes just a moment too long to answer. “No, Jon. No I'm not,” he says, not meeting Jon's eye, and Jon frowns.

It's not like Robb to be a sore loser. Usually, whenever Jon wins he has no problem letting him rub it in, although he's always coming up with excuses for why he did so badly, insisting he'll get his own back next time. And he usually does. They tease each other; it's what brothers do.

“It was a fair fight,” Jon insists, because of course it was; he's too stubborn to ever descend to cheating. They both are. “I didn't do anything you wouldn't have done. You have no right to be mad.”

Maybe he sounds a little annoyed then, and he watches as Robb's cheeks colour pink, almost embarrassed. “I know,” he mutters, fastening his clasp and still not looking at Jon.

It's only when Robb turns to arranging the practice swords in proper order than Jon notices how stiffly he's walking. “Are you injured?” he asks, glad Robb's back is turned and he can't see Jon's look of worry. He didn't mean to take it too far, it was only training after all, but well, maybe he did. Robb wouldn't like to admit it. “Do you think you need to see Maester Luwin?”

Robb shakes his head hurriedly, too hurriedly. “I'm fine.” Jon doesn't believe him. That makes him sounding like he's trying too hard to pretend he is.

“Come on, Robb.” Jon walks up behind him. He knows Robb can be proud, but still, he must also know the bollocking he'll get if he really is injured and he lets it get worse than it needs to because he doesn't want to admit it. Unthinking, he lays a brotherly hand on Robb's shoulder and squeezes.

Robb gasps.

Jon pauses. Suddenly he remembers the nasty blow he landed on Robb's shoulder not five minutes earlier, that's probably blossoming into a bruise beneath that cloak as they speak, and he feels a bit of a prick. “Er, sorry,” he says, loosening his grip, but from his new position he can see how that makes Robb's face turn even redder. That's the problem with Robb's complexion; he can never hide when he's embarrassed. But what is he so embarrassed about?

“Robb?” Jon doesn't want to exacerbate any of Robb's sore spots, but he does want to know what the hell is going on. As gently as he can, he guides Robb with a hand on both his arms, until his brother finally faces him and looks him in the eye. The look on his face catches Jon off-guard. His cheeks are pink, his eyes wide, pupils blown. He looks half-terrified. Jon wasn't that rough with him, was he? He doesn't think he's ever seen Robb look like this.

The cloak is being held firmly shut, Robb practically using it as a shield. “I haven't cut you under there, have I?” asks Jon, not stopping to wonder how one would even manage that with a practice sword, and without asking, he reaches out and pulls the cloak back open. Robb lets him.

He doesn't see any cuts. What he does see, however, is–

_Oh_.

Jon rapidly turns red himself when he notices what's jutting out from between Robb's legs – his prick, hard as stone. He drops the cape. “Sorry,” he mutters, breaking Robb's gaze. “Sorry, I didn't mean to...”

_It doesn't mean anything,_ he reminds himself, trying to ignore the way his pulse races. They're young men, and that happens when their blood is up. It's happened to Jon before, and he's told himself not to worry about it.

Robb turns even redder, but doesn't bother pulling the cloak closed again. “Sorry, I didn't–” he says, staring at the ground fiercely and worrying his lip. “I mean – I'm not – I wouldn't–”

_I know, it's just because we were sparring,_ Jon means to tell him, he means to laugh it off – an unfamiliar approach for him, but one that typically works better with Robb than most. But the words prove unnecessarily and alarmingly difficult. Instead, he reaches out again and tries to give Robb a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder.

He doesn't think.

Robb gasps as Jon's fingers press against his bruised skin, and then Jon's eyes go wide as he sees:

Robb's cock fucking _leaps_ in his breeches.

Jon blinks, not convinced he actually saw what he just did, and then he finally looks up and meets Robb's eye again. Robb looks mortified. “Jon,” he says, his voice near-broken, and so confused, Jon squeezes one more time.

Robb whimpers, loudly, and Jon almost gasps in amazement as his hips surge forward from the wall he suddenly realises he's got Robb backed up against. _He's enjoying this,_ he realises. _Robb's enjoying the pain._

He can't tell if it should be more or less of a shock than it is. Robb's been like this since Jon managed to knock him to the ground. Jon lets his fingers tap gently on the shoulder a couple of seconds, almost teasing. Then he digs them in _hard_ , and Robb has to bite his lip and clench his fist not to moan out loud.

Whatever bruise is there is going to be worse by the time this is done with, and Jon flushes as he realises he's started to harden as well. When he lets go once more, Robb whines. “Jon,” he says. “We shouldn't...”

Jon nods along. “I know.” This game seems wrong to play with anyone, let alone his own brother. But when he tries to take his hand away, he finds it irresistibly drawn back, trailing from Robb's shoulder down his chest, far more intimate. Eventually, it comes to a stop over Robb's left ribs, where Jon's sure he landed a nasty blow. He looks up and examines Robb's face again. “Here?”

Robb hesitates a moment, licks his lips. Then he gives a curt nod, and Jon presses down.

There's a thump against the wall, and Jon realises Robb just hit it, trying to keep himself from moaning aloud. When Jon dares to eye his cock once more, it looks so hard it could tear Robb's breeches clean off. Jon curses under his breath, amazed that Robb could want his aches pushed and played with so much. His knees are trembling. Jon digs his nails in, hoping to wring every drop of pain out of Robb. With a smothered cry, Robb falls to the ground.

When Jon registers what has happen, he's left stunned, staring down at Robb on his knees, blue eyes so wide and glossy, like he's about to cry. He looks so – so _submissive,_ down there, and if Jon's cock wasn't hard before it certainly is now. Robb's mouth waits perilously close to his cock.

He knows they're dancing on a line here, him and Robb. But, he tells himself, so long as Robb doesn't touch him there, so long as he doesn't touch Robb there, they haven't crossed it. Not yet.

(That's a fucking lie.)

“Where else?” Jon hears himself asking in a voice that sounds nothing like him. “Where else did I get you?”

Robb is panting as he looks up at Jon, and on the cold floor of the armour he spreads his knees, showing off his pitiful erection. “My thighs,” he whispers. “I'm pretty sure you got my thighs?”

Jon raises an eyebrow, but Robb doesn't back down. Jon is still wearing his boots, thick, heavy black leather, and with a sigh he raises one foot, putting it down over Robb's skin, barely an inch from his cock, and he presses.

“Ah!” Robb can't help but cry out, and suddenly he's thumping the ground with his palm, desperately trying to keep his moans of pleasure under control. Jon can see his cock throbbing from here. “Oh gods, oh gods Jon, oh–”

He only has to dig his heel in a little bit deeper, and Robb is wracked by a shudder all over. His lip starts to bleed from how deep he's dug his teeth in, and his hands fly up and cling to Jon's thighs, making Jon wince in pain himself. He doesn't see the appeal. Robb buries his face against Jon's skin, breath hot and shuddering, and Jon can feel him thrust his hips forward into nothing. When he looks down, that hardness is starting to fade.

Did Robb just...?

Jon is even more shocked by that than he has been by all of this. Not only that Robb has enjoyed this pain, has let Jon (his own brother) inflict it on him – but enjoyed it _that much_. How can such a thing even be possible? He lets Robb recover a moment, the panting making his own cock ache with need, and when Robb looks up at him he sighs.

“Come on.” He outstretches his hand gently, letting Robb pull himself to his feet, and trying to ignore just how disappointed his brother looks. “Let's get back to our rooms.” They can't get caught doing this in the armoury – whatever 'this' is, it would be a scandal to rock the North.

Robb purses his lips together, and nods, looking down ashamed of himself. He suddenly realises what's happened. How many lines he's crossed.

Jon shouldn't, but: “We – we can do more there.”

Robb's eyes go wide in surprise. But then after a moment, he nods, giddy as he would be on his name day. Jon sighs and steps out of the way, letting Robb walk on ahead of him, and then, when Robb starts to strut out of there like he's not walking with seed running down his legs, Jon slaps his arse, hard.

A gasp, and Robb turns around to stare in disbelief. Jon just shrugs at him, innocently, and Robb grins.

This is a bad idea. Someone's going to get hurt.

Jon can't wait.

 


End file.
